


Provocation

by AngelofDarkness1605



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofDarkness1605/pseuds/AngelofDarkness1605
Summary: Lady Belle has a highly unorthodox way of getting the Dark One's attention.





	Provocation

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Inkfire for the awesome beta work.

Rumplestiltskin restlessly scans the forest below him with his inhuman eyes as he clings to the tree trunk with equally unnatural strength. He may not have really paid attention to the ridiculous drawings that were appearing all over the realm in the last few weeks, but he just can't ignore them any longer. Now that people are laughing in his face rather than cowering in fear, more drastic measures than the mere tearing of paper will have to be taken.

Not to mention the fact that he's had both women and men offering themselves to him for the night, as a favor rather than a payment. He's almost spent more time thwarting those bizarre advances than making proper deals.

It's all highly unsettling.

Due to the… unexpected nature of the drawings, it has taken him much longer than it should have to find out the identity of the person—or, more likely, the  _persons—_ that is creating and distributing these beyond unlikely images. Just looking at them makes him…  _feel_ , which is unsettling to say the least—all but robbing him of his mental capacities.

The upside of his current approach is that at least, he doesn't actually have to lay eyes on the explicit sketches. Then again, lingering in the dark and quiet forest gives him an awful lot of time to  _think_ , and he's starting to find that wondering about these intimate images is almost just as disturbing as actually seeing them.

After all, who would be courageous enough to spread visualizations of himself and a variety of faceless women, all of them in a state of considerable undress—and each and every one of them in a different position, most of which he didn't even know existed?

Just when the Dark One is beginning to fear that he has wasted another night, that he will have to endure another day of mockery, there's movement on the juncture of paths almost right below him. A horse and a rider approach the crossroad, which will be bustling with travelers as soon as it gets light.

He slinks down the tree trunk as the rider gets off the horse, retrieving a piece of paper from a saddle bag. The individual's head is covered by a hood, preventing him from discovering their identity.

The figure nails the paper to the exact tree in which he's hiding, right where dozens of others will see it over the next day alone. At least, this time, he can intervene before any such thing can happen again, for there is no doubt in his mind that he has caught the menace red-handed.

No matter how tempting it is to confront and punish this person right here and now, Rumplestiltskin reminds himself that doing so would prevent him from finding any others who might be involved in this mortifying scheme.

That's how he ends up tearing the drawing from the tree trunk as soon as the rider has gotten back on the horse. Still, he snarls upon finding that the image depicts a half-naked, only too familiar scaly creature, on his knees in front of a woman in a similar state of undress, her thighs around his head and both of her hands in his hair.

More confused and upset than ever before, now that he's so close and yet so far from making sense of all this, he magically follows the rider through the night. One hour passes, and another, until they reach a far less traveled part of the realm; one that has been devastated by Ogres, recently by the looks of it.

The Dark One shivers unpleasantly, the awful images momentarily forgotten, including the one he's still carrying in his hand.

He continues to follow in the rider's footsteps as they get off the horse and sneak into a modest castle, one as of yet unharmed by Ogres – but doubtlessly not for much longer. He recognizes it belatedly; he was here several weeks ago, called by yet another desperate lord who couldn't afford the protection he sought.

Rumplestiltskin's determination falters when he follows the figure into a small room, even though a simple spell ensures that he won't be seen. It's not the awfully familiar type of sketches on just about every surface of the wall which disturbs him; it's the petiteness of the figure and the dark, lush curls which are revealed when the cloak is discarded.

He stands dead in his tracks at the discovery that this whole plot, which had him more flustered than anything else in at least a century, seems to have been concocted by a single person: a young, female and  _beautiful_ person in man's clothing, if the bright moonlight on her pale skin is any indication.

She lights a single candle and quickly locks the door of her room behind her, but he's already inside, still invisible. She is dead on her feet, but rather than collapsing on the narrow bed in the corner of the room, she seats herself on an old chair by the equally worn desk—and begins to draw.

His treacherous legs carry him to her side of their own accord, and he looks at her work from over her shoulder. He can barely contain a loud gasp as his eyes take in her current pattern, which leaves yet less to the imagination than anything she has drawn before.

Vaguely aware that it's not anger he is experiencing when gazing upon the graphic image, he quietly watches this new scene come to life. There is, of course, the figure that's meant to represent him, only clad in a long, loose shirt and a cravat, the same he wore when visiting this very castle.

This time, the version of him that has just taken shape on paper is joined by a female figure sitting astride him, straddling his… his  _manhood_ , no doubt. Her back is towards the viewer, but her pale skin and brown curls remind him strangely of the woman right in front of him. Unbidden, he imagines  _her_  this way, with  _him,_ her head thrown back and her back arching sensually, and…

Rumplestiltskin inhales sharply when realization hits him. He assumed that these drawings were meant to humiliate and degrade him, like his long-gone wife's complaints and sneers in their marital bed. But now that he is taking a proper look for the very first time, right next to the elegant hand of the artist herself, he realizes that this isn't necessarily true.

If anything, he supposes it's  _flattering_ that the women in the images appear to be enjoying themselves quite a lot, especially since there is none of his magic involved—somehow, it is to  _him_ that the fictional ladies appear to react with such ecstasy _._

For a fraction of a second, he wonders what it might be like if this were more than a huge exaggeration on paper. But the true extent of this whole lie is revealed to him when he spots the crumbling tome on her desk, its contents yet more explicit than the drawings themselves.

The woman isn't creating any of this by heart or imagination; she's  _copying_ scenes from a book, his main physical characteristics the only adjustment she makes.

"Rumplestiltskin," she says without warning, turning towards him in her chair. "I have been expecting you."

Thoroughly startled as he is, his invisibility spell breaks before he can recall that she isn't supposed to be able to see him in the first place. But here they are, and he is met by the bluest eyes he's ever seen—though he  _has_ seen them before, only briefly, in this very castle: from behind the torso of a ridiculously tall and broad man, who manhandled her out of the room before he could become fully aware of her presence.

Had he properly seen her back then, he would have known that Lord Maurice  _had_ something of value to offer him—someone of great value indeed. But now that she has made all those drawings, things are considerably more complicated.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he asks, gesturing at said images as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

His voice sounds rehearsed and tense, even to his own ears.

"My name is Belle," she replies, offering him her hand while easily ignoring his belated attempt to startle her.

"Rumplestiltskin," he responds tensely, although she already knows that.

He shakes her hand almost despite himself, the warmth of it leaving him shivering.

"I was wondering when you would show up. I'm glad you finally came."

"You did all  _this_ so we could meet here?" he exclaims, too bewildered by her efforts and apparent purpose to be concerned that he has been coaxed this way.

"I did. In your previous visit, you made very clear that there was nothing of value we could offer you so you might save us from the Ogres. I'm determined to change that."

"You think there is anything about these horrid scribbles that would persuade me to save this unremarkable hamlet?" he asks, the shrill laughter he aimed for remaining stuck in his throat.

"The fact that you showed up here tells me that there very much is."

"So you want to make a deal," he hisses through clenched teeth. "Anything in particular you have in mind?"

"Well, I must say… I'm not entirely certain about the effect that these drawings may have on you, so I don't really know what you might want in return for stopping the Ogres."

"Why don't you start by telling me why I shouldn't just kill you and be done with all this nonsense immediately?"

"You wouldn't do that," she replies after a long moment, perspiration appearing on her brow, "and even if you would… there are several others who know about this. I've instructed them to continue making and spreading the drawings in case something happens to me."

"Aren't you a clever one," he murmurs, not appreciative at all.

"So, since you're still here… what is it you want?" she asks, straightening herself to her full height… which isn't much, since she's yet less tall than he is.

"You tell me, dearie. What could you possibly have expected when you were working on this?"

"I… I'm not entirely certain," she admits, her confidence in this bizarre scheme finally faltering. "I had no idea whether you would be offended or distracted, or annoyed, or… tempted."

"You're hoping that I destroy the Ogres in exchange for your maidenhead?!" he all but splutters, looking at her in horror.

It's hardly the first time he is receiving such an unappealing offer, but to get it from a woman who has to rely on sources other than her own memory or imagination to draw explicit scenes…

"I am," she acknowledges, her lowering eyes and quivering voice informing him that her body is far less enthusiastic about this than her mind might be. "If that's what you want…"

"I'm not that kind of monster," he whispers roughly, knowing only too well to what extents she has gone to arrange this highly unorthodox meeting—that she's a martyr, more than anything else.

She's not naive, or all that young now that he's taking a better look at her, but she's still sheltered and innocent in many ways. Besides, simply imagining being with the likes of  _him_ can't possibly be as highly unpleasant as actually going through with it.

"Then what is it you do want?" she repeats, her gaze more confident—and undeniably relieved—when it meets his again.

Rumplestiltskin pauses, considering. He  _does_ want to get rid of the drawings once and for all, but he doesn't wish to make the deal nearly as horrible as she seems to expect. Then again, her side of it can't be anywhere near easy, for he must make absolutely certain that she won't do anything like this ever again, considering how startled it left him.

At the same time, there's a repulsive but undeniable part of him that is longing to share…  _something_  with her, if of a far less physical kind than what she just reluctantly offered. Preferably something he can keep,  _cherish_ , in the gloom of the Dark Castle.

"I'll save your little town from the Ogres… in exchange for a drawing," he states, conjuring out of thin air a sheet of paper that is exactly six feet long and three feet wide. "A  _life-size_  drawing, like the kind you did before… of you and me."

"We have a deal," she agrees, her palm warm and rather damp in his when she offers him her hand again, to seal their agreement this time. "Do you want me to start right now?"

"Of course. There's no time like the present, dearie."

"In that case, is there any chance you can also uphold your own end of the deal presently?"

" _Naturally,"_ he replies, not pleased that she has flustered him to the extent that he had all but forgotten that people might get killed if he delayed.

The Ogres are destroyed with a mere thought and a grand hand gesture, the latter only added for dramatic effect.

"That's it?" she inquires, sounding more suspicious than impressed. "Just like that?"

"You have so much work to do that I will certainly still be here by the time the good news arrives to the castle, so you can be certain that  _I_ upheld my end of the deal," he responds, pointedly gesturing at the large and entirely empty sheet of paper.

"Very well," she says, looking at him sharply as she takes the item from him.

Rather than putting it on the bed—the only surface in the room that would be large enough—she lets it fall to the floor without taking her eyes off him. Raising his eyebrows as his gaze focuses on the unceremoniously dropped paper, Rumplestiltskin is thoroughly startled when he feels her hands on his dragon-hide coat.

"What's the meaning of this?" he brings out in a wholly undignified manner.

"You want me to draw you, don't you?" she shrugs, reaching for the fastenings of the coat to undo them casually.

"You've drawn me before," he remarks, bewildered—not least of all because of the unfamiliar sensation of being touched like this.

"In case you hadn't noticed, it's rather difficult to draw something— _someone—_ of which I have no idea what exactly it looks like," she retorts, gesturing at her previous work—which is, indeed, not very refined. "Especially when the drawing has to be so  _large_."

Beginning to see that he hasn't been nearly as clever as he thought, the Dark One can only stand there as she matter-of-factly shoves the usually intimidating garment down his shoulders.

He figures that this is the end of it, but Belle proves him wrong once more when she begins to undo his cravat as well, baring his neck and part of his chest as soon as the material has come free.

It's starting to dawn on him that he is feeling rather bare now, standing in front of her like this, his upper body only covered by a decadent but rather thin shirt. Despite what she's done already, it still comes as a shock when she also reaches for the hem of the last layer of clothing that's covering his torso.

He almost stops her, but at the last moment, he reminds himself that doing so might make her realize just to what a large extent she has caught him off guard. Besides, he knows only too well what he looks like. She will doubtlessly hurry to cover him up again as soon as she has cast a single glance at him.

Rumplestiltskin almost snorts in self-depreciation when she stands still and stares at him as soon as his chest is entirely bared. But rather than looking away in disgust, Belle steps closer to him, studying him with wide and unmistakably intrigued eyes, as if he were some sort of curiosity—a  _pretty_ one, at that—rather than the darkest and most hideous sorcerer in all the realms.

Goosebumps rise all over him under her scrutiny. Chilliness may no longer bother him, now that he is the Dark One, but it turns out that his curse doesn't leave him immune to  _this._

"You must be cold," she says, sounding as if she  _cared,_ and leaving him feeling strangely bereft when she abruptly moves away from him. "I'd like to light a fire, but…"

She gestures at the fireplace in her room, where there is no wood or tinder box in sight. Clearly, such resources have become scarce in the war against the Ogres, even for the daughter of the lord. Without much thought, he starts a roaring magical fire in the hearth with a single snap of his fingers.

"It must be nice to be able to do that," she remarks, her smile falling when she takes a look at his face—where, for a brief moment, he couldn't conceal the horror of the curse. "Or maybe not. At least I can see you much more clearly now."

That's hardly a relief either, but at least Belle doesn't return to his side immediately. She blows out the candle, its light paling in comparison to the fire in the hearth. Clearly, even with the Dark One in her bedchamber, she's still thinking of the rarity of such items.

At least she won't have to endure that much longer. He can't help but smile a little as he takes in the generously-stocked bookshelves, right behind the many drawings. It's easy to imagine her reading happy tales by candlelight in the dark of night, rather than drawing inappropriate images of a creature like him.

"There's a sheen of gold all over you," she remarks, sounding far too excited to be talking about  _him_.

But when she returns to his side and goes as far as to stroke his arm with gentle fingertips, there is no denying that it is he, somehow, who evokes such exhilaration within her.

Rumplestiltskin may have been out of his depth before, but that's nothing compared to the bewilderment that comes over him when she touches him like this, drinking in the sight of his cursed, bare-chested self with eager eyes.

"I thought you had scales when I first saw you," she says softly, more to herself than to him, as her gaze continues to roam all over his person. "But now that I can look at you properly, now that I can touch you… I had no idea that your skin would be so soft and warm, almost like… almost human."

Any sarcastic retort he may have had dies on his lips when her fingertips subsequently find their way to his chest. If he didn't know any better, Rumplestiltskin would say that her moves are almost… reverent. His eyes close of their own accord as he savors the most tender touch he has known in his entire life.

He doesn't understand any of this, has no idea what's happening to him, especially when a seemingly accidental brush of her smallest finger against one of his nipples has him inhaling sharply. His eyes burst open as pleasure spreads all through him, finding her wholly focused on him—and what she just discovered she could do to him.

She moves to repeat the motion, but he grasps her wrist before she can do so, afraid of what might happen if he were to feel that delight again, if she were to caress him once more as if he weren't utterly repulsive and unlovable.

"It's like those gold spots on you are becoming more pronounced," she whispers in awe, like she's studying some beautiful picture, rather than  _him_. "Are you… does that mean that you are  _blushing_?"

He tenses when he realizes that he  _is—_ and, yet worse, that she has immediately noticed this. Still, all of that is only a symptom of something much more concerning. The Dark One can't help but glance down his body to confirm what he already feared: for the first time since he can remember, he has become aroused.

Her eyes bright with curiosity and something he can't quite define, she follows his gaze. He immediately looks away, hoping that her shadow is enough to hide his shame as it falls on his lower half.

"You  _are_ ," she smiles, as if that apparent surprise was large enough to distract her from the part of him that's also changing quite drastically in appearance. "Well then, let's move on."

Before he can understand what's happening, before he fully realizes that she's moving at all, she is gently but firmly urging him to walk backwards. He does as she wordlessly requests, at least until the backs of his knees hit something soft and he finds himself falling back onto her bed.

Before Rumplestiltskin has somewhat recovered from this also highly unlikely turn of events, he feels her clever fingers on his lower legs. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, and his mouth falls open when he finds her tugging at the laces of his knee-high boots, her brows furrowed in concentration.

He tries to think of something to say, _anything_ , but by the time he has realized that he doesn't even know for certain whether the rather tight boots can actually be removed without magic, she's already successfully tugging the left one down his leg.

"What… what are you  _doing_?" he brings out at last, as soon as he has somewhat recovered from the discovery that she appears to be studying his  _foot_ now.

"I'm assuming you want me to draw  _all_ of you in that huge size you had in mind? I might as well know what you actually look like, in that case."

Rumplestiltskin had all but forgotten about their deal, about the reason they're here in the first place. All he can think of right now is  _her_ , with her bright eyes and adventurous hands and lovely smile—and the current state of his treacherous body is also rather difficult to ignore.

While she busies himself with his other boot, he collapses onto the bed again, trying to think of any way to escape this particular turn of circumstances without having to back out of the deal he just proposed—and preferably before she notices that he's getting very hard indeed.

Still, it's difficult to think clearly, or at all, especially when his eyes fall on the many drawings all over her room. As if it weren't bad enough that he's partially undressed on a lady's bed, that he's far from unaffected by all of this, it dawns on him at last that all things considered, these thrice-damned drawings are rather tasteful and… in fact, utterly  _intoxicating_.

For all his bluster and angry determination, he  _is_ tempted by this impossibly sweet and wonderful woman, whose soft hands are caressing his lower leg now. But he  _can't_ be, as much for her sake as his own. He should get out of here, consider this wretched deal in the safety of the Dark Castle, and…

"Shall I take this off as well?"

Tearing his gaze from an image that shows his paper self forehead to forehead with a brunette with bright blue eyes, their hips intimately joined, he inhales roughly when he finds Belle right next to him on the bed. She's lying on her side, her hand placed on his stomach.

Rather than getting away from her as quickly as he possibly can, Rumplestiltskin closes his eyes, allowing himself to savor the contact. It feels utterly unfamiliar to be touched like this, with such tenderness and apparent affection. It distracts him from everything, including the fact that his tight leathers won't prevent her from noticing what all of this is doing to him.

"Is this all right?" she asks softly, tentatively sliding her palm downwards—to the very point where his desire for her is unmistakable.

"Yes," he gasps, despite himself.

The truth of the matter is that he simply can't think straight any longer. On the other hand, he is  _feeling_ like he never has before. Yet more than that, he  _wants_  what she has drawn over and over and over again—like he has never wanted anything in his entire, too-long life.

"Would you like me to…" she implies, gradually moving her hand closer and closer to where he's aching for her the most.

" _Yes."_

Rumplestiltskin all but sobs when she brushes a single fingertip over the straining bulge in his trousers, the light touch prompting him to arch his entire body towards her.

"Is this not pleasant?" she asks, her voice hoarse.

"Please do that again," he pants, all his awareness reduced to the epicenter of his arousal and the softness of her.

That's how he finds himself thrashing on the lady's narrow bed, her hands increasingly bold as they pleasure him through his leathers. Surely it's only his imagination that her breathing is quick and shallow, but even the faintest hint that she's also enjoying this only prompts more arousal within him.

"Can I take this off as well?" she asks, the way she trails the fingers of her free hand over his inner thigh the only part of her question that he's actually aware of.

Rumplestiltskin nods fiercely regardless, willing to grant her everything as she gives him pleasure he has never known the like of. Sensing as he is that this bliss is about to end soon, no matter how much he would like it to go on for a very long time, it's almost a relief that she needs both her hands to take his trousers off.

He opens his eyes just in time to see hers widen considerably when she drags his leathers down his thighs, her gaze heavy on him the whole time. He hisses when the warm material brushes against him before his length springs free.

Belatedly, it dawns on him that he shouldn't have let her do this; the sight of him before his curse would doubtlessly have disgusted her already, not to mention now that his skin has acquired such a particularly sickening color in this state.

"I wondered what this would look like," she says, not even blinking as she casually drops his last item of clothing before returning to his side. "I've never seen a man like this before."

It's beyond him how she can refer to him as human, let alone a  _man—_ how she can possibly appear to look at him so eagerly, almost as if she wanted this as much as he does.

"Look at you," she murmurs with something that can't possibly be appreciation, kneeling down next to him to trail her fingertips over his abdomen.

The muscles there clench beneath her brushing hand and her mouth actually falls open when the gentle touch, so tender that he almost wants to howl and  _cry,_ prompts him to twitch and rise further—to the extent that his manhood ends up straining against his stomach.

"Can I touch it?" she breathes, as if she couldn't wait to do exactly that.

He nods again, although such an experience might well kill him—although, no doubt, it would also be the best part of the last two centuries or so, if not more.

However, nothing quite so final happens when her fingertips wander along his length again, this time without anything to separate them. He gasps and groans and shakes, his eyes closing firmly, no matter how much he's longing to see more of her small, perfect hand on his monstrous body.

Her touches are infinitely more pleasant than anything he has known before, and at the same time, it isn't entirely enough. With an instinct he didn't know he had, the Dark One grasps her innocent hand in his own, encouraging it to stroke him more fully.

Belle moans in response, prompting him to quickly remove his strong grip as he realizes what he has done. But rather than stopping or belatedly fleeing from him, she simply continues of her own accord.

"So  _that's_ how it works," she remarks, sounding rather pleased, and even more… intrigued.

He  _wails_ when she caresses him again, slower and more purposefully this time. Managing to pry his eyelids open, he finds her with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, her chest heaving beneath the nondescript man's shirt she's wearing.

Her gaze is solely on the part of him that's currently in her merciful hands, and his own eyes fly between her face and the place where she's stimulating him. When he looks up again, it's just in time to catch the sight of her tongue on her lips as she licks them absentmindedly.

Rumplestiltskin isn't quite certain whether it's this highly tempting sight or her left hand darting out to fondle his base that finally leaves him undone. What is  _very_ certain is that he can't hold on any longer, his hips bucking instinctively and his lowest of instincts taking over before he can warn her.

He practically sobs as his entire body tenses and shakes upon finding his release, spurting hotly over his stomach and her hand. Rather than letting go of him in disgust after all—if only because her curiosity must be satisfied at this point—she continues to stroke him, drawing out the pleasure in a way he didn't know was possible.

Mortified by the mess he has made on himself, on  _her_ , he vanishes the offending evidence with the most subconscious magic he has ever performed. When he makes a more conscious attempt to dress himself in this manner as well, Rumplestiltskin finds himself too far gone to manage this.

With the increasing awareness that he is more exposed and vulnerable than he has ever been in his life—and in the presence of such an inquisitive and clever person, one that he barely knows, no less—distress wells up from behind the cloud of bliss his body is still floating on.

Somehow sensing this sentiment, even though he can't—and doesn't  _want to—_ explicitly express it, Belle lies down next to him and pulls a sheet over the two of them. When she turns towards him on her side and extends her arm to him, he can't help but answer the unspoken question by leaning in to her.

Before he knows it, he is practically  _cuddling_ her. She begins to caress his hair and back, as if she hadn't done so much for him already. For now, he can no longer question what is happening, why she's doing this.

Closing his eyes, he rests against her, a calmness coming over him which he hadn't known for a long time—if ever—as he allows himself to relax and savor this bliss. If anything, the sheer comfort and peacefulness of her embrace is yet better than what she did for him before.

"Thank you for letting me do that," she says quietly, right when he is beginning to wonder how he should apologize for all of this.

"How can you possibly be  _grateful_ for…"

"There's only so much that books can describe—the ones I can get my hands on, at least. I was curious… I  _am_. Not just to be prepared for the… marital bed, but also… solely for the sake of discovery and pleasure. I never  _wanted_ to see a man like this before. But with you…"

"You  _enjoyed_ this… you enjoyed  _me_?"

"I did, yes. Very much. You're not at all how I thought you would be, Rumplestiltskin."

"But how can you… you were the one making  _me_ feel good, how can what you so generously did have given  _you_ any pleasure?"

"Maybe it wasn't pleasure as such, not in the way you seemed to experience it. But to me, it was very exciting in its own right. It was…  _arousing,_ too."

"It… it was?" he asks, his voice as small as hers.

"Very much so," she breathes against his bare skin. "Do you suppose you might…"

"Might what?" he asks, his heart hammering in his chest as her high-pitched tone implies what her words don't just yet.

"Could you… can you touch me as well? The way I just touched you?"

"You'd like me to touch you like  _that_?"

" _Yes_ ," she gasps, as if there were nothing she'd wish to happen more right now.

There's no way he can grant her this request—and that has nothing at all to do with the fact that he usually cannot accept deals without receiving the required price. She's so innocent, sweet and pure… he absolutely cannot taint that—for as far as he hasn't done so already.

"Please, Rumplestiltskin?"

"How can you possibly want anything of the kind? You could have anyone…"

"I read about such things, but I've never… I never felt like this before, I never wanted anything like this before. But with you, being like this… it's like I  _need_ to be touched by you, like I just touched you."

For the first time, he begins to wonder what this might mean for her, leaving aside the monstrosity of himself—cursed or not—which doesn't seem to bother her at all. She's a lord's daughter in a tiny town, her goodness almost tangible, despite the kind of drawings she creates and spreads over half the realm.

A happy marriage, let alone a satisfying one, doesn't seem particularly likely for a woman in her shoes. She'd be ruined if anyone were to know this about her… but then again, she'd be ruined if she were to be found like this with  _anyone_ , and of all candidates, he might very well be the least likely to share this with anyone else, if only because no one could ever possibly believe  _this._

"Do you… do you know what you'd like me to do?" he rasps, knowing only too well that he has a poor history in this regard, no matter how hard he has tried to forget it.

"I think so, yes," she murmurs—her cheeks flushing yet further, almost tangibly so, as she presses her face against his shoulder. "Between my former governess sleeping in my room, the guard my father used to post at my door and my… artistic activities of the past few months, I could never actually try the things I read about, but…"

"Show me?" he requests raggedly, finding that he's starting to  _really_ like the prospect of trying to make her feel good and overcoming some of his own failures at the same time.

Rather than answering him verbally, Belle takes his right hand and presses it against her side. It's like they're both exploring uncharted territory, marked by gasps and groans as she guides his palm to her chest.

His breath catches in his throat when he finds himself cupping one of her breasts over the loose, worn shirt she is still wearing—and the other one, too, for she turns out to have grasped and guided his left hand as well.

With her encouragement, the Dark One carefully kneads and squeezes her yielding flesh, seeming even more surprised than herself by the pleasure he somehow evokes within her this way. For all her lack of practical experience with physical acts, she might well know more about intimacy than he does.

He watches in open-mouthed awe how she undeniably becomes more and more inflamed by his exploratory touches. Not to mention the moment when she almost matter-of-factly pushes his hand beneath the fastening of her trousers—and whatever she's wearing underneath that as well, if the sudden feeling of warm skin and short curls right beneath his fingertips is any indication.

"Would you mind…"

She pauses, startled, but she seems more shocked by her spontaneous action for the sake of his modesty than her own.

"I wouldn't mind in the slightest," he manages to bring out, his fingers caressing her of his own accord.

"I don't know how this is supposed to work, exactly," she says, her face as flushed as his own would be, had it still been human, "but I  _think…_ "

There is fire in her eyes, their gazes locked as she guides his hand lower. Both of them sharply inhale when the heat of her skin is joined by unmistakable dampness. He doesn't know what this signifies—it certainly never felt like this with his late wife, who barely tolerated him in her bed and whom he couldn't please no matter what he tried.

Rumplestiltskin still has no idea whatsoever what he's doing, but if the not quite so soft moans of the woman currently at his side are any indication, she has taught him to do at least  _something_ right. Trying to memorize as much of this as he possibly can, he marvels at the different and unfamiliar textures of her folds.

Not to mention the fleshy hub where she keeps guiding his fingers, and which draws the most vocal reactions from her—especially when he begins to carefully apply a little pressure, beyond what she's already encouraging him to do.

"Oh yes, this is it," she laughs, almost triumphant, right before that exclamation turns into the most obvious sound of pleasure he has heard from her so far.

He may have just spent himself in more wonderful a way than he could ever have imagined, but he finds himself twitching once more at the noises he is drawing from her. Indeed, his body does more than that when she embraces him, locking just about all of her limbs around him. Burrowed against his chest, his right hand is pressed snugly between his abdomen and her spread thighs, which she rocks into him in a silent request for him to continue on his own.

The sorcerer is more than happy to do that, although he soon finds out that her pleasure is not nearly as straightforward as his own. His hand slides a few times in the increasing slipperiness where he is stroking and rubbing her, and similar touches don't necessarily appear to have identical results whenever he finds his way back to the core of her pleasure.

But she tightens her hold on him regardless, her cries of delight becoming yet louder and more high-pitched. As if that weren't delightful enough, she shifts in his embrace until the coarse fabric covering one of her inner thighs is rubbing against him. He doesn't know whether she did this on purpose, whether she has any idea about the breath-taking effect it has on him, but he takes it as an invitation to rut against her helplessly until she tells him otherwise.

It's becoming considerably more difficult to focus on his ministrations in such a situation. But just when he is beginning to fear he'll find completion again without having gotten her in the same state at least once, her movements and voice grow urgent in a way they were not before.

"Oh yes, Rumple. Right there.  _Right_ there. I think I'm going to…"

His mind not fully registering the nickname he supposes he will get used to  _very_ quickly, he doubles his efforts. Panting her name and burying his face in her by now damp hair, he marvels at the way she is rocking herself against his hand, wholly free from the inhibitions she—both of them—grew up with.

She brings out his name again, all but  _shrieking_ it against the bare skin of his neck, right as she trembles all over and yet more moisture gathers where he's stimulating her. He isn't entirely certain that she is actually experiencing what he very much hopes she is, but he's momentarily too far gone to do anything but continue exactly as he was doing.

Somehow, he manages to carry on even as his own pleasure entirely overtakes him again, mere inches away from where the same has hopefully happened to her. Wholly aware of the way she keeps rubbing her thigh against him, despite the roar of pleasure in his veins, he instinctively does the same for her until they simply collapse limply, side by side.

Out of breath in a way he didn't know he could be while carrying his curse, he refuses to focus on anything but the sheer bliss that's currently washing over him for a long while. Still, there's one thing he has to make certain of before he can truly surrender himself to this extraordinary feeling.

"Belle, did you also…"

"I did, yes. Very much so."

She is  _beaming_ , her entire face beautifully flushed. Rumplestiltskin finds himself smiling back just as broadly, elated by what they have found together. He's completely taken aback by what they just shared, as if he weren't a hideous sorcerer and she a maiden driven to drastic measures.

Instead, it feels like they're just… together—like they're  _meant_ to be like this.

"It's a miracle!" comes a wholly unexpected and unwelcome voice from the hallway, immediately followed by several loud knocks on the door separating the room from the rest of the world, which he had momentarily forgotten about. "The scouts just returned with incredible news—the Ogres, they're gone! Get up, my darling daughter, we must prepare the celebrations!"

Belle tenses in his embrace, and so does the Dark One now that the father of the woman with whom he just experienced such debauchery appears to be just outside her bedroom.

"I'll come down in a minute!" she exclaims, and by now, he isn't all that pleased any longer that her voice is still suspiciously hoarse.

However, much to their relief, Lord Maurice's footsteps are already retreating and Belle relaxes again. Rather than getting up and changing into something more suitable for her father's halls, she lies down next to him and embraces him once more. To his bewilderment, she appears to be reluctant to get out of bed, away from him.

"Let's stay like this just a bit longer?" she requests softly.

"But your father…" he manages to object, even as she lovingly trails her hand through his hair.

"… has probably already forgotten I'm not there."

"Let's stay like this for as long as you like, then" he breathes, hoping that there'll come a more suitable moment later to address the sudden sadness in her voice.

Her mood visibly improves as soon as she finds herself cuddling sleepily against his bare chest. Strangely relieved by this, he pulls a blanket over the two of them, keeping them warm. He can't help but smile into her wild curls as they tickle his face.

"I just realized… I haven't even gotten started on the drawing yet," she says rather sheepishly, glancing back at the very large and still very empty piece of paper.

Before he can tell her that it's no matter, that she has given him something infinitely more valuable than an image of the two of them, she shrugs and smiles rather mischievously.

"Not to mention the drawings of your co-conspirators," he murmurs, belatedly recalling that she told him she wasn't the only one involved in doing this.

"Wasn't it clear that I was bluffing?" she asks softly, glancing at him from beneath her gorgeous lashes.

"It wasn't," he admits, relieved to discover that there is, in fact, only one person drawing explicit images of him… the very woman from whom he, by now, rather  _likes_ it.

"Well, I was. Just in case."

"You didn't think… you didn't truly think that I'd  _hurt_ you, did you?" he asks, cringing as he recalls his casual threats.

"I didn't think you would do anything like that, at least not at that point, but I couldn't be certain."

"Even before all this, I wouldn't have hurt you," the Dark One tries to reassure her, his usually so smooth tongue becoming clumsy once more. "But now…"

He falters, not understanding the strong sense of protectiveness that wells up inside him. But it's not as if he could ask to see her again, to do anything like  _this_ once more. It's beyond unlikely to think that this happened at all, let alone that the event may repeat itself.

"I guess we'll have to spend more time together so I can finish the drawing," she continues, gesturing at the still empty sheet of paper. "We might even have to… practice some more, before I can get the image right."

"I imagine we might have to do exactly that," he replies tentatively when she looks at him with unmistakable hope, suddenly feeling a similar kind of lightness within himself.

Smiling back at her, Rumplestiltskin finds himself eagerly looking forward to anything of the sort. Besides, given the fact that she has driven him to the peak of his pleasure twice, whereas he has only returned the favor once so far, he ought to get to make her feel so good once more at the _very_ least.


End file.
